Eve:
I met Michael in elementary. My parents moved me into the school district, and I had no friends and a serious attitude. He tried to play me for a fool in various unimaginative ways, but I was almost always able to avoid the fallout. He only got in trouble about half the time, but he still blamed me. As we grew up, our emerging personalities clashed and the small crimes compounded, until now, at the age of eighteen, we either snarled at the sight of each other or avoided each other entirely.
Until the night I went to a dance at another high school, at the beginning of my last semester of high school. I was having a moderate amount of fun, but the guy I went with expected something he just didn't inspire in me. In short, he didn't turn me on, and that's apparently the only criteria I have for fucking a guy.
I was trying to squeeze out of the "privacy nook" my date had maneuvered me into, my date having stormed out ahead of me when I told him I wasn't giving it up. Michael decided it would be amusing to block my exit from the narrow walkway under the bleachers.
"Well, well," he said with a smarmy grin. "That couldn't have much fun for either of you: you two only went in there a minute ago."
"Fuck you, Mike," I said pointedly and moved to go past him.
"That's Michael," he corrected, peeved. The nickname was the one thing that never failed to irritate him, so, of course I used it whenever we were forced to interact. "And tsk, tsk, Eve. I would've thought you'd had enough of that for one night." I'd almost managed to slither past him when his arm shot out in front of me.
"For your information," I said, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me pissed off, "the phrase 'fuck you' is indicative of 'fuck yourself.' As you are giving someone an order, there is an implied 'you' at the beginning of the sentence. But for the feeble-minded, I'll restate this more clearly: Go fuck—" I was startled when his face abruptly descended towards mine.
He paused with his lips centimeters away. "Yourself," I finished breathlessly. Being this close to him made my heart pound, my breath catch in my throat. But not, I was horrified to realize, just because I hated him: it was because I wanted him.
"I think not," he murmured, so infuriatingly calm that despite my desire, I wanted to slug him.
"Truer words were never spoken," I hissed, some of my breath returning with the ease of the exchange.
He leaned forward until he was speaking with his lips against mine. "Now, now. Keep that up and we'll never get this over with."
"What?" I asked, distracted by my treacherous body. Our lips had barely brushed and my nipples were hard and my breath was coming faster. The friction from my dress rubbing against my nipples skittered along my nerve endings, shivering along my skin.
"This," he explained, and kissed me. Finally.
The point was driven home then that hormones are a powerful force, and not to be underestimated. My own were suddenly clamoring, ignoring the fact that he was a conceited asshole. The only message I received was, "Sex. Now."
I didn't realize I was so far gone until I let out a whimper at the feel of his tongue caressing my lips. Suddenly they felt swollen, and far more sensitive than before. Then the kiss grew deep, his tongue mimicking sex inside my mouth. I began rocking my hips against him, feeling the growing length of him as he pressed me against the bleachers at my back.
I tore my mouth from his, leaving our bodies plastered together. I looked at his eyes, saw they were dilated a bit glassy, and I could feel the effect I was having on his body. Trying to get a little control over myself and the situation, I leaned forward and bit his jaw gently, then whispered, "Where can we go where we can have a little privacy?"
"My car," he said, his jaw as tight as his grip on my waist. I nodded, making it slow and casual. He pulled back from me, just until we were side-by-side. His arm stayed around my waist, his fingers digging into my hip as we walked quickly out to his car.
